Tuesday, July 1, 2014

First Shot (14)

The
text message from Lt. Callahan asked Blow to meet him. No time or
place. Several typos in the message suggested Callahan was not up to
speed in the fine motor skills of adolescent smart-phone thumbing.

“When?
Where?” Blow texted back. His skills were almost as deficient,
consisting of holding his flip-top antique in one hand and tapping
out the message with the index finger of the other. Within seconds,
Blow's phone vibrated and startled breakfasters in the neighboring
booths at Marie's Restaurant with the tinny strains of Beat Me Daddy.
It was Callahan. Blow snapped up the lid.

“Yeah,
Carl.”

“Hate
that damn texting crap. Keep hitting the wrong buttons.”

“So
why do it?”

“Hate
not looking cool.”

“You're
shitting me.”

“No.
Don't tell anybody. God damn kids here all do it like it's second
nature. Don't hafta even watch their thumbs fly around on the fuckin'
things. God dammit, Blow. Getting old sucks.”

“Kids?”

“All
these new deputies. I'm old enough to be their father. Hope to hell
none of 'em are mine.”

“So
what's the deal? You had breakfast? I just got here. Marie's.”

“Nah.
Not hungry. I'm going nuts. Need you to meet somebody. Come on down
when you're done.”

“Who's
it this time? Female maybe?”

“You
wish. Frankly, so do I. Eat up. We'll be here.”

The
bully odor of smoldering cigar assaulted Blow's nostrils with the
punch of a diesel-fueled Panzer battalion emerging from the winter
woods around Bastogne. It hit him on the stairs leading to the
second-floor detective bullpen and Callahan's tiny office.

Gack,
was the word he suppressed while drawing on his thespian skill-set to
project a simulation of worldly forbearance as he approached the
office from which the choking fumes escaped. Once inside, his eyes
squirted instant burning tears of extreme prejudice against the
billowing blue-gray nimbus that hovered stubbornly over the top half
of what appeared to be a human body seated in one of the chairs
facing Callahan's desk. Blow's sidelong glance at Callahan, behind
the desk, captured a helpless shrug of crisp white-shirted shoulders
and a cryptic smirk on the hawk face.

Just
then the cloud parted enough for Blow to discern the behemoth,
balding head and barrel torso of the figure that proved indeed to be
a human body. A six-or-so-inch-long brown tube, resembling a fattened
Oscar Mayer Smoky Link with a light gray tip protruded from the
head's beefy lips as the smoke dispersed into ghostly remnants that
drifted sullenly toward the ceiling where an A/C return vent busied
itself escorting the noxious guests away. Attired in a black
pinstriped suit, gold-striped black shirt and platinum tie, the body
struck Blow as perhaps a lost extra from the set of a Godfather movie
or one of its ubiquitous imitators.

The
head's blackberry eyes studied Blow without expression. Blow did
likewise but offered a polite nod, which the head reciprocated. Blow
turned to Callahan, eyebrows arched into question marks.

“Mr.
Stone,” said the cop, pointing his chin at the stranger, “This is
Frederick Himmler. He's an insurance examiner with Colonial
Liability. Mr. Himmler, Joseph Stone, one of our leading attorneys.
Please excuse the startled look on the poor guy's face.” The
Godfather extra pulled the cigar from his mouth with stubby fingers
and waved it in the air as his head rocked back and his features
stretched outward in all directions from its wide-nostriled nose
creating a look of maniacal merriment. His laughter, as well, low and
graveled, came straight from Central Casting.

As
suddenly as it started, the laughter ceased. “Have a seat, Joe,”
Callahan invited, and Blow settled into the chair next to Himmler,
who stuck the cigar back between his lips and extended the hand that
had been holding it. Acting himself now, pretending to be the sort of
manly man never averse to gripping a paw undoubtedly rank with
tobacco-stained spit, Blow reached out and made the expected
sacrifice.

“Have
a cigar,” said the gravelly voice after the hands had withdrawn and
Himmler's returned holding a stubby brown stick he'd pulled from his
jacket's breast pocket. When Blow made no move to accept the gift but
simply gaped at it, worrying that his face registered revulsion,
Himmler added, “Cuban. Cohíba
Siglo VI. One Castro's the finest. No one can afford them. Got these
as a bribe from a client.”

Blow
stared, then slowly shook his head. “Thanks, Mr. Himmler--”

“Freddie,
god dammit. Call me Freddie. Akshully my name is Lenny Moskowitz.
Himmler is my...what the hell you call it? Nom de goor or whatever? I
use it on the job to intimidate, ya know? Hey, it works! I stay in
character on the job, ya know, udderwise I would insist dat youse
should call me Lenny. Here, take the goddam stick—that's what we
fishanados call 'em, sticks—cost a fortune. You'll never have
anudder one like it.”

Blow
almost started to say he was allergic to smoke, but remembered he was
playing a role. “Thanks, Freddie,” he said robustly, grinning,
sniffed the “stick”, nodded appreciatively and and inserted it
reverently into his breast pocket. “Later. Oughta be perfect with a
good Cognac.” He snuck a look at Callahan's desk and saw an
identical “stick” resting proudly on the calendar in front of
him.

“So
anyways, me and Carl here, the lootenant, we was just talkin' about
the imposter who has been in town here pretending to be me. Frankly
dis give me da creeps. It has never happened to me before. I do not
know what to make of it, frankly. Look, Carl here has played the
video for me, dat's on YouTube? It is abundantly clear to me from
dis video dat dis here shooting was no accident. Clear as a bell.
Murder. Ya know? Murder. And I don't do murder. Dat's Carl's job. All
I do is prove dat dere was no accident. Den me and my compny, we are
in da clear, ya know? No claim. No claim. No claim for murder. So I
am outta here. It has been a real pleasure, gennimen. A distink
pleasure to meet youse guys. An' I wish you all da luck in da world
in solving dis murder. So...” He rose with surprising grace to his
feet, extended his paw once again to Blow and then to Callahan, did
the grips, turned, released a gray-blue blast from the priceless
stick in his lips and was out of the office quick as a cat with its
eye on a mouse.